into you
by garyprestons
Summary: It's not ideal, but it's 14 years of sexual frustration. Takes place during 3x06 amidst the snogfest of amazingness.


When the door to Miranda's flat finally closes, Gary only has half a second to catch his breath before she's throwing herself at him again, arms around his neck and her body pressed up tightly against his. He still can't quite believe it's happening, but he's so happy it finally is. She's always been the one big unanswered question in his life, and now that he's finally told her how he feels, he really hopes she doesn't decide to leave. He wraps his arms tightly around her body, his hand in her hair for a moment and she moans softly against him.

He freezes, managing to pull himself away from her just enough to glance down at his watch. The party starts in ten minutes, knowing Penny and her friends they'll be fashionably late… and he's got a full staff working for the day. Really, they'd be able to survive without him long enough. And Penny doesn't even know Miranda's back anyway, so her daughter's absence wouldn't be that strange.

And they've waited so long for this. And he really, really, really doesn't want to stop. And he can tell she doesn't either, because her hands are cradling his face, fingers lightly stroking, and her eyes are bright and glassy with emotion.

Sod it, he thinks, and his hands slide down her back to her bottom, making her grin and pull his head down to hers, her lips claiming his for the sixth time. (He's been counting). He feels her moving backward, not towards the bedroom but towards the front door, and he's confused but doesn't ever want to stop kissing her so he follows, hands still roaming, exploring, mapping out every inch of her that he can reach. She's soft curves and long limbs and they just fit together without even having to try.

One of her hands slides from his face to reach behind her, fumbling for the latch on the front door until he hears it lock, and it's pulling at his jacket with an urgency and impatience that is at the same time both adorable and really, really sexy. He lets go of her long enough to shed his jacket and, at her insistence, his plaid shirt.

They keep going.

By the time he reaches for the fasten of her trousers, they're both breathless, lips swollen from kissing and her hair rumpled from his fingers tangled in it. He hurriedly pushes them down over the swell of her hips, hands smoothing over the soft cotton of her pants and the even softer skin beneath, and he grinds slightly into her through them.

They're both slowly beginning to spiral out of control, and this isn't how he imagined it would happen. He'd been thinking candles, wine, all of that romantic stuff which he knew she'd love and he'd love it too; she's the only person he'd be comfortable embracing his inner hopeless romantic around. But he knows that she probably doesn't care about any of that, and neither does he – all he cares about is that it's her. Because it's always been her, and he's been a fool for so long to think that he needed to do anything other than just tell her how much she means to him.

She stumbles backward slightly until she's pressed between him and the front door, and he slips his hand behind her head before she can clock it and possibly give herself a concussion. They stare at one another for a moment, out of breath; her chest is flushed pink and rapidly rising and falling and she's got a freckle on her breast that's kind of cute.

"Miranda, I-" he starts, feeling like he can actually say it, but she covers his mouth with her own and pulls at his boxer shorts; it's the last barrier between them and if it were anyone else, he'd feel ridiculous about being completely starkers in broad daylight in her flat up against the door, but because it's Miranda it's perfect and funny and sweet, just like her.

"Mm, sorry, you were saying?" she mumbles against his lips after a moment, her fingertips dancing up his spine and along his shoulders.

The words have slipped away, his moment of bravery overshadowed by arousal and urgency and desperation, and instead his hand slides lower to her inner thigh, lightly stroking it and feeling her tremble against him. "Um, d'you have-"

She cuts him off with another searing kiss, and even though she's the one pinned to the door it's starting to feel like she's got the upper hand, or maybe it's just because he's so gobsmacked by her boldness. "Oh, got it covered," she breathes against his jaw, and for a moment he feels a flicker of jealousy; she's been sleeping with someone else for over a month now. His grip on her tightens slightly and she moans against him again.

He watches in awe as her expression changes the moment he slowly eases into her, his hand on her hip and the other braced against the door next to her head. How her eyes slowly flutter closed, how her mouth opens slightly in surprise. Her fingers dig into his back slightly, enough for him to know that she's still alive, still breathing, even if she's not saying anything. He doesn't think he could say anything either even if he tried.

Everything around them stills. He's completely lost track of time but it's irrelevant now. They've passed the point of no return, and right now he really just needs to move before he loses what little bit of self-control he has left. Their bodies meet, her hands clutch at him, and instinct takes over. Emotions and sensations rock through him – the feel of being wrapped up in her, literally and figuratively, the pierce of her nails into his skin, the sheen of perspiration glittering on her neck and chest.

His only warning that she's close is when she buries her head into the crook of his neck and cries out his name, and he feels her start to shake against him. He holds her tightly to him, pants her name, and then gives in, letting it rock through him until they're both collapsing against the door, spent.

It's not ideal, but it's fourteen years of sexual frustration culminating in one perfect moment of bliss, and as he gently brushes her hair off of her damp forehead, he realizes he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. At least now she knows, if she didn't before, that he absolutely, desperately, needs her. And even if he can't say those three little words just yet, there's nobody else he wants but her.

And when he tells her, there'll be candles and wine. He'll do it properly. It's what she deserves, and maybe then, she'll know.

She stirs against him, eyes heavy and sleepy, and smiles up at him, and he's pretty sure she already knows, anyway.


End file.
